


Chicken Soup for the Superhero Soul

by Traincat



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traincat/pseuds/Traincat
Summary: “Ugh,” Johnny said. “Am I patient zero? Is New Attilan going to execute me for infecting the capital?”Hank glanced at him, amused. “Unlikely. It really is no more dangerous than the common Earth cold. My recommendation is chicken soup and plenty of rest.”“Ugh,” Johnny repeated forcefully. “This sucks.”





	Chicken Soup for the Superhero Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So like a week ago on tumblr I posted a WIP that I liked, but didn't think I was going to finish, because canon had moved on pretty far from the point I started writing at, and I have a thousand other WIP projects, etc etc. 
> 
> Having done that, I ended up finishing it after all. This is 100% hurt/comfort sickfic with no other purpose. It takes place immediately after Rocket Raccoon #1, which, shout out to the anon on tumblr who told me to read Rocket Raccoon #1, because it is actually a Very Sad Johnny Storm Issue. You don't have to read Rocket Raccoon #1 to understand this, but I recommend it if you want to watch Johnny Storm attempt to make friends with Rocket, be very sad, and get robbed by Rocket. For the purposes of this fic, Johnny and Medusa broke up slightly sooner than they actually did in canon, though Johnny's still living on New Attilan. (At this point in canon, Parker Industries was also still a thing.)

This was how the story went:

Johnny saved the space raccoon.

Johnny tried to help the space raccoon.

Johnny made the space raccoon a fucking martini.

The space raccoon stole a bunch of Johnny’s stuff and left while he was sleeping, and oh yeah, the space raccoon was apparently just getting over some kind of _space flu_.

Johnny, aching head and sore throat, didn’t know why he was so surprised.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Hank McCoy said. “I’m afraid you have a cold.”

“That’s impossible,” Johnny said, voice muffled by the tissue he was holding against his nose. “I can boil my blood. I don’t get sick.”

“Well as the good detective said,” Hank hummed deep in his furry chest, “when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

It was a bad moment for Johnny to start coughing again. He tried to glare at Hank but, doubled over, he mostly only managed to glare at his knees.

“I thought Spock said that,” he managed at last.

“Speaking of which, have you had any contact with aliens lately?” Hank asked.

“Uh,” Johnny said, thinking back to the other night with Rocket. He hedged. “I might have. You know our line of work, we’re always running into aliens.”

And taking them home and mixing them drinks and spilling his whole depressing life story to them, he didn’t add.

“Mm,” said Hank archly, his furry brows raised. “Shall I take that as a tacit yes?”

Johnny flopped backwards onto the exam table, his arms crossed.

“Ugh,” he said. “Am I patient zero? Is New Attilan going to execute me for infecting the capital?”

Hank glanced at him, amused. “Unlikely. This reminds me a great deal of a virus that had nearly the entirety of Xavier’s shivering in bed years ago, save for Wolverine. It really is no more dangerous than the common Earth cold. My recommendation is chicken soup and plenty of rest.” His eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “You have the bonus of not being burdened with Logan’s bedside manner.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Johnny repeated forcefully. “This sucks.”

 

* * *

 

He went to his rooms alone and hunkered down on the couch and napped for an hour or so, restlessly. His dreams kept melting into memories, like the time he’d burned himself when he was ten, home sick with the flu. It was the summer before Sue shipped him off to Aunt Mary’s, and a tiny bitter little part of him had always thought that was the reason – she’d made him promise not to use the stove and he’d done it anyway, miserable and drowsy off the medicine she’d forced him to take before she’d left for her shift.

He'd tried to hide it from her, but he’d been small, and sick, and never much of an actor. She’d snapped at him, tired from her long day, and he had tried not to cry and failed miserably. Sue had rebandaged his hand and then she’d let him stay up and watch television in the living room while she did her homework.  
He remembered the scratch of pencil against paper, the way she’d brushed his sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

The door cracked open. Johnny looked up, surprised, wondering which of the Inhumans would just enter his chambers without an announcement.

It wasn’t an Inhuman standing in his doorway. It was Spider-Man.

No, not Spider-Man – it was just Peter, standing there in a suit and staring wide-eyed around Johnny’s room.

“Pete?” Johnny said, just blinking at him. Peter’s gaze fell on him, like he hadn’t actually noticed Johnny until that moment. “What are you doing here?”

“I got a call,” Peter said. “Why am I your emergency contact?”

“Had to be someone not on New Attilan,” Johnny stammered out. “I don’t – I don’t have anyone -- Why were you _called_ as my emergency contact?”

“Hank McCoy said you were under the weather,” Peter said. “And after I got over the minor heart attack I had when a member of the spandex set called Peter Parker’s personal line, I decided to come over.” He dropped into a crouch in front of Johnny’s couch, frowning at him. “What’s wrong? You really don’t look well.”

“Caught a bug,” Johnny mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious, naked except for his underwear in front of Peter in his suit and tie. He didn’t know why; he’d been _entirely naked_ in front of Peter before. But Peter’s dark brown eyes were so focused on Johnny, sweeping over his body. It made Johnny feel like he could see right through him. “Hank says it’s not serious. I just need to sleep it off. Don’t know why he called you.”

Peter’s face did that complicated thing it did when he knew the answer to something he thought he shouldn’t share. He’d spent too many years wearing a mask and not enough playing poker.

“Pete?”

“He said you seemed…” Peter hesitated, as if he was choosing his words carefully. “He said you seemed like you could use a friend.”

Johnny swallowed hard, throat working for a second. His eyes burned a little, shame prickling in his chest, that he was so lonely an acquaintance like Hank had sent for Peter. That he was so lonely Peter had actually come.

Poor, pathetic Johnny Storm again. Suddenly he didn’t want Peter here after all.

“I’m fine,” he said forcefully, turning away from Peter. There was a sheet at the end of the couch. He grabbed it, pulling it up over himself. “I’m totally fine, Pete, so you can go now.”

Peter didn’t say anything for a long moment. He didn’t move, either. Even facing away from him, Johnny could feel him like a map of heat, still crouched in front of the sofa in that familiar Spidey pose. Part of Johnny wanted to turn, to wrap his arms around Peter’s neck and soak up all of that glorious warmth.

He cut his losses and turned toward Peter again. It seemed to break the spell; all of a sudden Peter rose to his feet. He grumbled something under his breath, shaking his head.

“Your floor is sticky,” Peter said. “What happened to this place? Wild party?”

“What are you talking about?” Johnny asked, groaning a little. “You’re so loud.”

“What am I talking about?” Peter said. Johnny cracked one eye and found that he had actually put his hands on his hips. “It looks like a bomb went off in here, except the shrapnel is made out of old pizza crusts.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t eat the crusts,” Johnny mumbled, pulling the blanket up over his head. “Pete, my head hurts and you’re channeling your aunt.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Peter said. His voice grew a little distant as he moved around the room. “You got anything for that? Advil? Alkaseltzer?”

“Don’t think so. I don’t really get sick,” Johnny said.

“You also don’t really have anything to drink that isn’t 80 proof,” Peter said, coming back into the room. “Here, party boy, sit up. Drink this for me.”

Johnny groaned, but grudgingly did as Peter asked, taking a glass of tap water from his outstretched hand. His sore throat protested, but Peter’s stare was withering. Peter touched one hand to his forehead after Johnny was done.

“You’re not hotter than usual…” he clucked.

“Thanks,” Johnny snorted. Peter’s hand felt good against his clammy skin.

“Not even going to make a joke about my thinking you’re hot, huh?” Peter said, taking the glass from Johnny. “You really aren’t feeling well.”

“Mmf,” Johnny responded intelligently, falling over and burying his face in the couch cushions.

There was a sigh from above, and then there were long fingers in his hair. That was nice. Johnny made an approving noise.

“Yeah, okay,” Peter said. “I don’t have the time or the inclination to play maid for you –”

“What about the outfit, though? You got that?” Johnny mumbled. Peter ignored him.

“—and I’m not leaving you in what basically amounts to a dumpster behind a shady nightclub.”

“Nice,” Johnny said. “Real nice, Pete. What’s your amazing suggestion, then?”

“Come home with me,” Peter said.

Johnny cracked one eye open. “Come again?”

“Come back to the Baxter Building,” Peter said. “It’s marginally cleaner than this place, anyway, and I’m betting the Inhumans don’t believe in ginger ale and chicken soup.”

“I haven’t asked,” Johnny said, stomach twisting. Crystal might bring him some, if he really begged, and if he played the nostalgia card, recalling the time she’d sat in the kitchen watching as he’d so carefully recreated Petunia Grimm’s famous chicken soup. But Medusa was still a sore spot between them. He felt awful whenever he recalled the look on Crystal’s face when she’d found out, like someone had slapped her.

“Well there’s both those things back on Manhattan,” Peter said, voice all coaxing. Johnny kind of wanted to hit him, but not as badly as he wanted to wrap his arms around him and put his head down against Peter’s wiry, dependable shoulder and sleep for a month or until he felt better, whichever came first. “Big television I never use… Come on, you’re sick. You don’t want to be alone right now.”

Johnny opened his mouth to ask why Peter thought he’d be alone, and then he took another look around his quarters and shut his mouth.

“Alright?” Peter asked.

Johnny almost said no. Knew he should say no. But he thought about the warmth of Peter, when he let all his defenses down, and he thought about the Baxter Building, the only home he’d ever really known, and he thought about how horrible he felt, and his resolution dissolved.

He told himself he was only agreeing because Peter wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Alright,” he echoed, swallowing hard.

“Alright,” Peter agreed, pulling Johnny up into a sitting position. Johnny groaned, trying to hit him on the arm. “Yeah, that’s real nice. Upsy daisy, hotshot. You’re coming home with me. Tell me where your civilian clothes are?”

“Closet’s in the bedroom. But I’m too sick to fly, we’re too far to swing, and I’m not riding in a web raft,” Johnny said stubbornly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “I chartered a boat. Now you can walk or I can carry you, but you’ve only got five seconds to make the decision.”

Johnny looked at Peter’s expression, the set of his jaw and his drawn together eyebrows, and abandoned all hope that Peter was bluffing. He huffed, dramatically tossed the blanket back, and staggered to his feet.

“This had better be a nice boat,” he said.

 

* * *

 

It was a nice boat, and Johnny tried not to be faintly bitter about that.

“Thought the Inhumans might put up more a fuss about you leaving with me,” Peter said. His hand hovered at Johnny’s back, like he was afraid he might topple over. In truth, Johnny felt weak and shaky, but wasn’t going to give Peter the satisfaction.

“I’m not a _prisoner_ ,” Johnny huffed, throwing himself into his seat.

“Yeah, but nobody likes me all that much,” Peter said. He put one hand on Johnny’s knee. “And you are their queen’s… whatever.”

Boyfriend, Johnny could’ve corrected, his chosen word – or consort, which was the Inhuman preference. He hadn’t been either for weeks. “We broke up.”

“Oh,” Peter said, voice flat, missing the kind of sympathy Johnny didn’t actually expect from him but desperately wanted all the same. “That’s – oh. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Johnny said. Peter’s hand hovered by his shoulder. That was all Peter ever did – hovered. He never got as close as Johnny wanted, but he never backed off enough to let him stop hoping, either.

God, Johnny loved how warm he was, glorious hazy-hot just at the edges of his perception. He had to fight not to lean into him.

“Are you holding up okay?” Peter asked.

“I tried to adopt a space raccoon,” Johnny bit out. “You saw what my rooms looked like, so, no, Peter, not really.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “Really, Johnny, I am. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Johnny huddled deeper into the sweatshirt Peter had found him and remained stonily silent.

“Yeah,” Peter said, with an awkward little cough. “So, uh. You eaten anything? That _didn’t_ come in a carton.”

“No,” Johnny admitted, sullen.

“No to the eaten or no to the carton?” Peter pressed.

“Both,” Johnny said. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep after that, trying to avoid whatever expression Peter was doubtlessly giving him.

There was a long moment of silence, and then a sigh and a rustling noise. Peter must have pulled out his phone because he was standing up and speaking to someone in a low tone. Johnny tuned it out and let the motion of the boat and his own sheer misery help him slip into restless sleep.

 

* * *

 

The nice boat gave way to a nice car.

“I hate this,” Johnny said, resting his forehead against the cool passenger side window. “I hate you. You don’t deserve this car.”

“You want it?” Peter said. “Tell the truth, I just picked the first one the guy in the shiny shoes tried to sell me.”

Johnny groaned. “You’re the _worst_. You probably got robbed.”

“Probably,” Peter agreed. “How’re you feeling?”

“Worse than your driving,” Johnny said with a bitter pang, because in truth Peter’s driving wasn’t dire, not anymore. Peter had gone and paid someone a probably obscene amount of money to teach him how to drive without sending waves of New Yorkers scattering screaming from his car’s path, something Johnny had never been able to manage. Johnny, who only counted himself an expert in two things besides fire: cars and Spider-Man’s thick skull.

He wanted to go back to that day, racing through the streets in the Spider-Mobile, shouting for Peter to pull over before he ran someone down, Peter’s plaintive cries for Johnny not to go – because he had no idea how to parallel park.

Johnny wanted to go back in time pretty much constantly these days.

“Grouchy,” Peter said, but he thankfully let the conversation drop after that. He indicated the radio instead, and Johnny fiddled with it even though there was nothing he wanted to listen to. He found a station playing some old song that made Peter nod along and left it there.

Johnny put his head back and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them until Peter turned the car into the Baxter Building’s underground parking garage. This part of the building wasn’t much changed at all – there was a big glowing PI logo over the elevators, because Peter wasn’t a very subtle person, but otherwise he could pretend that he was just taking the private elevator up to his old room, to lie on his own bed and feel miserable but _safe_ , and more importantly loved.

“Come on,” Peter said, hand on his knee. “Home, sweet home.”

It was a strange feeling, to both adore and resent Peter for saving Johnny’s home. At least if it had been in supervillain hands, Johnny wouldn’t have to feel so complicated about it.

Why couldn’t Doctor Doom have chosen _now_ to shoot the building into space?

“Hotshot?” Peter said. Johnny blinked and found that he was standing in front of Johnny’s now open door. He’d been so distracted, looking at the garage, that he hadn’t noticed. “Need a little help there?”

Johnny fumbled with his seatbelt. Peter’s fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh – Johnny knew him too well to doubt that Peter wanted to lean over him and undo it himself, haul Johnny out of his seat as easily as a feather pillow. Johnny glared at him before he could give into temptation.

He’d meant to bat the hand Peter offered out of the way, but Peter was faster than him. Long, strong fingers wrapped around Johnny’s, effortlessly pulling him forward. Peter pulled too hard, or maybe Johnny was too unsteady on his feet – either way he crashed into him, Peter’s arms winding around him before he stumbled.

“Whoa,” Peter said, steadying Johnny against him. Johnny’s hands came up to push Peter back, but somehow his fingers ended up curled in his shirt instead. “Hey, there.”

“Let go,” Johnny said, attempting to yank himself out of Peter’s iron grip.

Peter, to his surprise, obeyed – and Johnny overbalanced immediately and just barely caught himself against the side of the car. For a second the only sound was his own breathing, echoing too loud in the cavernous garage.

“Going to stop being so stubborn now?” Peter asked.

“Jerk,” Johnny mumbled. He glared at Peter’s reflection in the car’s tinted window.

“Drama queen,” Peter retaliated, taking Johnny – gently – by the elbow and tugging him back upright. “Geez, you’re a mess.”

Johnny knew that already; he didn’t need Peter to comment on it. He yanked his arm away and stayed upright this time, at least partly through spite.

Even still, Peter hovered.

“Torch,” he said. Johnny really must have been pathetic, for Peter do such a 180 on the tone, going from snide to soft in an instant. “Come on. Let me take you upstairs.”

 

* * *

 

They’d rebuilt and remodeled the Baxter Building so many times that Johnny had adjusted quickly to the differences, though there a cool, impersonal touch to the décor in Peter’s penthouse apartment that spoke of the involvement of a decorator – but then, of course, Peter was always so busy. Busy enough to make Johnny watch him suspiciously as he tipped him onto the couch – Johnny had given up the whole ‘not leaning on Peter’ thing somewhere around the 20th floor – and stripped off his own jacket before settling beside him.

Part of him had expected Peter to toss a blanket and some Nyquil at him and then leave, back to the office or out swinging, whichever needed Peter more. He didn’t like himself very much for that thought, and in the moment he didn’t like Peter very much for making him think it, either.

There were a few personal things scattered around the apartment – a recent photo of May hung prominently on the wall, next to her wedding photo, and then off to the side a shot of Peter sandwiched between Mary Jane Watson and Harry Osborn, both of them with big grins and Peter wearing a look of chagrin. Johnny knew that sparkle in his eyes, though. Knew he’d been happy when the photo had been taken.

“Hey,” Peter said, snapping him back to reality. He looked tired. Good – Johnny always thought Peter looked good – but worn out, with none of the Peter in the photograph’s spark.

Peter always worked too hard, at everything he did.

“Hey,” Johnny said back, and it earned him a small smile.

“Food’s on its way,” Peter said, squeezing Johnny’s knee. “Sorry, but I tried to make Aunt May’s recipe once and the end result was bad enough that I had to promise never to do it again. Here.”

He placed the remote in Johnny’s hand, then settled back against the couch, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Johnny guessed that was the end of that.

He flipped past a news channel, not quite fast enough.

“Parker Industries stock continued to fall today,” the pretty blonde newscaster said, and Johnny watched as a muscle jumped in Peter’s jaw.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said.

“Are you leaving?” Johnny asked.

Peter’s apartment really was more comfortable than Johnny’s rooms on New Attilan and it wouldn’t be terrible, being alone on his couch watching television, except now that he’d been in Peter’s company he realized how badly he didn’t want to be alone.

“No, no,” Peter said absentmindedly. “Short of an invasion of the stingray people, I’m staying with you.”

That made him smile. He bit the inside of his cheek to try and make himself stop, then realized he didn’t want to. The couch was comfortable, and Peter didn’t protest when Johnny settled on a cooking show, nor did he complain when Johnny shoved his toes under Peter’s warm thigh. It was easy to let himself drift, half-daydreaming about being able to have this whenever he wanted: Peter, right next to him, in the only place Johnny had ever really thought of as home.

The ding of the private elevator’s doors broke Johnny from his reverie. A woman’s voice called out Peter’s name. Peter squeezed Johnny’s ankle and got up off the sofa.

“Two minutes,” he promised. “Coming, Anna!”

“I can be alone for a minute. I have a cold, I’m not five,” Johnny snapped at his back.

“You’re one mean invalid, you know that, Torch?” he called. “You’re lucky I’m stuck with you.”

“Is this that Parker luck you’re always mumbling about?” Johnny asked, stretching out on the couch in the lingering impression of Peter’s body heat. He didn’t think Peter heard him, or else he chose to ignore him, quickly disappearing around a corner.

Johnny shut his eyes and tried not to pay attention to the curl of jealousy in his stomach, worse than the mild nausea, as he listened to the murmur of voices in the other room, the click of a woman’s high heels on the shiny floors.

It had been a nice little fantasy -- _I’m staying with you_ and the warm brush of Peter’s fingers against Johnny’s forehead – but already it was broken, and Johnny was left feeling worse than before.

He opened his eyes when the voices came closer and caught sight of a small figure and a head of dark hair before she disappeared back into the elevator. He put two and two together with a picture of one Anna Maria Marconi, seen standing next to Peter in half a dozen photos Johnny had found while bitterly and not entirely soberly google-stalking Peter.

Johnny curled in on himself a little tighter, fishing for his phone on the coffee table, longing for a distraction from the unhappy twist he got from the idea of Peter with anyone else.

When Peter came back it wasn’t with a tray but with an old pizza box laden down with water and steaming bowls of soup, balanced expertly on one hand.

“Ta da,” he said, setting one of the bowls down in front of Johnny. Johnny ignored it, choosing to glower at Peter instead.

“You, what, you got your new squeeze to bring me soup?” Johnny said. “That’s low, Pete.”

“I’m not seeing her, she’s just a friend,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “And she’s a good cook. Homemade chicken soup, yeah? Good for the soul or whatever. Stop being so suspicious and eat something.”

Grudgingly, Johnny sat back up, partly because Peter had thrown himself back down in his space and Johnny couldn’t deal with that right now. He took the bowl instead, relishing the heat of it in his hands, and leaned against the couch’s armrest.

Peter hadn’t lied; his friend’s chicken soup _was_ good, hot and rich. Already Johnny felt a little better.

“My soup’s better,” Johnny said, though in truth he wasn’t sure. He expected Peter to snort, or have some snappy comeback, but instead he only hummed under his breath. “What?”

“What, what?” Peter asked. “You’re a good cook, is all. Don’t think I don’t remember the only perk I got out of us living together.”

It was barely a compliment. It shouldn’t have made Johnny duck his head, cheeks warmer than before. He stuffed the spoon in his mouth so he wouldn’t say anything stupid, thankful that he couldn’t be scalded.

He yawned when he was finished, hand cupped over his mouth, and caught himself as he automatically started to tilt Peter’s way. It was the heat of him, he realized – his powers trying to offset the phantom chills he felt by latching onto Peter.

Stupid, spider-y, observant Peter didn’t help; he’d clearly caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, turning towards Johnny. His arm slid around the back of the sofa, and then around Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny’s eyes fluttered closed.

Peter was so warm. It felt so good to lean into him and be surrounded by that.

“What’s happening here?” Peter asked. Johnny nuzzled his shoulder before he could stop himself.

“Body heat,” he mumbled drowsily. “You’re warmer than most people. S’nice.”

Peter’s hand came up to card through his hair and Johnny nearly melted. “Wonder if I can thank the spider for that one, too.”

“It was a good spider,” Johnny said. “I was _cold_.”

“Glad you finally have a use for me,” Peter teased, tugging lightly at Johnny’s hair. It made shivers run down Johnny’s spine and filled his head with inappropriate images of other ways Peter might pull his hair. It was hardly the first time he’d imagined it, a tangle of Peter’s long, strong fingers and golden locks, forcing Johnny’s head back, holding him still.

Johnny pulled back a little, feeling a little more flushed and a lot more awake than before. Peter didn’t seem to like that; he reached out and snagged a quilt – doubtlessly a gift from his aunt -- and draped it over Johnny’s shoulders, tugging him back down against him.

“Hey,” he said, going back to petting Johnny’s hair. “If you need body heat, you got it, okay? Feed a cold and all that.”

“I don’t think that means whatever this is,” Johnny mumbled. When Peter laughed softly, Johnny felt it. He sighed, eyes slipping shut again.

“Adjust with the times,” Peter said. “Whatever you need, I’ll make it happen. Bonus points if I just have to lie here and watch television. Hey, you falling asleep on me?”

“No,” Johnny murmured, curling closer towards him.

He drifted awake to a dark room. The television was on soft, an old black and white movie playing. Through the gloom Johnny picked out Peter’s familiar silhouette, clad in the costume and slipping out through the window.

He smiled in spite of himself, closing his eyes again.

“Happy hunting, Pete,” he muttered, turning over.

 

* * *

 

There were big white eyes staring at him through the dark when he opened his eyes. For one terrible second he was back in the Negative Zone, no comfortable couch cushions underneath him but instead a cold metal table, and Annihilus standing over him, and he shot up with a stifled gasp.

He could feel the worms squirming in his skin, slowly knitting him back together.

“Shit,” Peter said, ripping off the mask as Johnny’s gasp turned into a coughing fit, leaving him bent over his own fist, his shoulders shaking. Peter’s hands landed on his arms, stroking anxious little circles as he hacked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I thought you were sleeping.”

Johnny shook his head, struggling to breathe.

“Dreaming,” he gasped.

“Sorry,” Peter repeated. His expression was so cartoonishly hangdog it almost made Johnny laugh, except that he was still trying to even out his breathing, his chest aching, and his blood felt like ice.

He pressed a hand to his chest and felt his smooth, unbroken skin through his shirt. There were no worms. He wasn’t in the Negative Zone. He was in the Baxter Building, with Peter, and he was safe.

His vision blurred with tears and he blinked hard, willing them away. He wanted his sister.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asked, swallowing around the wobble in his voice. He hoped it was less obvious to Peter than it was to him. “That’s creepy.”

“It wasn’t creepy,” Peter said, rubbing a hand up and down Johnny’s back. He probably thought he was helping. “I was just – I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” Johnny said bitterly, pulling away from him. He picked up May’s quilt and held it closer to him, looking away.

Peter was quiet for a long moment.

“Well,” he finally said. “That’s patently untrue.”

Tears stung at Johnny’s eyes again. Peter’s hand dropped to his covered knee, squeezing, and then he got up and left the room.

Johnny bit his lip, his eyes screwed up, and thought about how it wasn’t fair. He tried to be fine. He tried so hard, and now his stupid, fragile illusion was shattered, right in front of the person he least wanted to see just how not fine he really was. He opened his eyes and stared at the reflection of himself in Peter’s giant television’s dark screen, just barely visible in the city lights streaming in from the windows, taking in his messy hair and tense shoulders, his wet eyes.

This had been a mistake.

 _You’d get up and you’d flame on and fly right out that window,_ he thought at his miserable reflection, furious at it, _if you weren’t such an idiot._

The living room light clicked on.

He looked up in surprise to find Peter standing in the doorway, juggling a cup of water in one hand and a steaming mug in the other, attempting to adjust the dimmer switch with his elbow. He’d lost the costume’s gloves and there was a bandaid plastered haphazardly across his left cheek, but otherwise he looked no worse for the wear. He glanced at Johnny over his shoulder, and Johnny couldn’t read the expression in his dark eyes.

He hoped it wasn’t pity. It didn’t look very much like pity, but then that seemed to be the only thing anybody looked at Johnny with anymore.

“Here,” Peter said, putting the water down in front of him. “Drink that first.”

Cold was more of a memory than a sensation and it had been for half of Johnny’s life, but the water was still soothing to his dry throat. Peter watched him, his dark eyes still unreadable, and when Johnny was done he took the glass and pushed the mug into his hands instead. Johnny curved his fingers around it automatically, leaning in towards its heat. He inhaled the steam, his eyes falling shut.

“It’s not any of that fancy herbal stuff with the gold leaf floating in it or anything,” Peter said, fussing with the quilt until it was evenly distributed across Johnny’s lap. “But I figure it’s still better than nothing. Drink. You’ll feel better.”

He sat down next to him and Johnny, head thick with fog and heart full of grief and ears filled with the echoes of Annihilus' hissing voice, gave in and leaned towards him again, towards his familiar warmth. Without hesitation, Peter curled an arm around his shoulders, his thumb stroking restlessly.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked when Johnny had drained half his mug.

Johnny pushed more heat into the tea until it was steaming again. “No.”

He could feel Peter hesitate before he next spoke. “Any of it?”

“No,” Johnny repeated.

Peter was quiet for another long moment, and then he reached over and plucked the mug from Johnny’s grip, setting in down on the coffee table. He didn’t even wince at the hot ceramic, although he did shake his hand out afterward, face set in a frown.

“Alright,” he said, pulling away from Johnny a little bit. “Well – I have something I want to tell you about, I think.”

“Peter?” Johnny asked, turning towards him.

“I know this isn’t the best time for this, but I’ve been thinking a lot recently about – well, about you,” Peter said, hand at the back of his neck. “The way you – just about you. And me. And the way you make me feel. And… if this is the wrong conclusion I would absolutely prefer it if you set me on fire rather than it ruining our friendship.” His gaze was fixed on Johnny’s mouth. His voice was rough. Johnny’s head was spinning. “But Johnny, I don’t think I’m wrong.”

Peter took him by the chin and leaned in. Johnny couldn’t breathe.

Then he moved on instinct, slapping his hand over Peter’s mouth and saying, “No.”

Peter’s eyebrows did something very complicated and he pulled away very quickly, gaze averted. Johnny realized what he’d said. He scrambled forward, trying to close the distance between them on the couch again, but got tangled in the quilt. His hand fell to Peter’s knee.

“I mean! Yes!” he said. “I mean –”

“Hey, breathe,” Peter said. “It’s not like I didn’t consider this might happen. It’s okay, Johnny, really.”

“It’s not,” Johnny said. All his words felt caught up in his chest, his mind reeling, heart beating fast – Peter had just tried to kiss him.

Peter wanted to kiss him.

“Let’s just pretend this never happened,” Peter said at the same time as Johnny blurted out, “You can’t kiss me when I’m sick, you moron!”

There was a beat.

“What?” said Peter. “Johnny – I—what did you just say?”

“You can’t kiss me when I’m sick!” Johnny repeated. He felt hot all over, sure he was flushed straight down his chest if the way Peter’s gaze had dropped to his throat for a split-second had anything to say about it. Peter wanted to kiss him. He could barely think long enough to get the next words out. “You’ll get sick too. So you, you know,” he swallowed. “You have to wait.”

“I have to – Johnny,” Peter said. He raised a hand to Johnny’s face. “Johnny, you want me to kiss you.”

It wasn’t a question. Johnny nodded anyway.

Peter started to laugh.

“Ohhh,” he said, hand pressed to his chest in relief. “Oh, I thought – beautiful, you’ve got to lead with the important things.”

“Peter,” Johnny said. He couldn’t think of what to follow it up with. He reached forward clumsily. “Pete.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Peter said, half to himself. He was still laughing but it was quieter now, tinged with affection. He was looking at Johnny all soft-eyed, a completely and totally new expression, like he’d dropped every defense. “Great. I hate being wrong.”

“How long?” Johnny asked, unable to get out _have you felt this way._ “I didn’t – I didn’t notice.”

“You’ve had other stuff on your mind,” Peter said. “Although I _did_ buy you a building. I think as far as courtship gestures go…”

That made Johnny snort. “Courtship gestures? How old are you?”

“My aunt raised a gentleman,” Peter said. “Hey, I’m trying to start an argument with you now.”

“ _That’s_ being a gentleman?” Johnny said.

“You were with Medusa,” Peter said. He raised a hand to Johnny’s face, thumb stroking along his cheek. “I thought – I can’t give him anything like that.”

“What?” Johnny asked, chest aching, thinking – there wasn’t anything that Peter could give him that he didn’t want.

“I don’t know,” Peter said, smiling that one real, honest smile, the one that was sad around the edges. “A giant castle floating in the Hudson?” Peter dragged his thumb across the highest point of his cheek even as he glanced down. “Stability. Security. A – a piece of your family back.”

Johnny’s eyes burned. He covered Peter’s hand with his own. “Since when has the Human Torch ever been stable?”

Peter laughed, but not like it was funny.

“Let me kiss you,” Peter said, canting his head towards Johnny’s until their foreheads touched. “I think you need it, and I think if getting bit by a radioactive spider couldn’t shake the ol’ Parker immune system…”

“If you get sick, it’s your own fault,” Johnny said. His arms came up around Peter’s shoulders. “You’re not allowed to blame me.”

“You want that in writing?” Peter asked.

Johnny opened his mouth to say that he wanted it _notarized_ , but Peter’s hand was at the back of his head, tangling in his hair again, and Peter’s lips were on his cheek. He interlaced the fingers of his free hand with Johnny’s, just holding.

Johnny had never imagined it this gentle.

“I’ll get a pen and paper,” Peter said, “after I get to kiss you.”

It was soft. Chaste. Peter didn’t push, even though Johnny could tell he wanted to – even though Johnny kind of wanted him to. This was so much just as it was – the gentle slide of Peter’s lips, their fingers locked together.

“I’m so mad at you,” Johnny said when Peter’s mouth had drifted back to his cheek, kisses soft and lazy. He fisted his hands in Peter’s costume, tugging. “You couldn’t kiss me before I had space flu? Really? This is the least sexy I’ve ever been in front of you.”

“I’ve seen you be less sexy before,” Peter said, nosing at his ear. Johnny wanted to knee him for that, but it was hard when he was so comfortable and Peter was so warm. “You’ve never draped yourself all over me and snuggled up before, either, blondie, so I think this one’s on both sides.”

“No, it’s your fault,” Johnny said. “Definitely yours. Oh...”

Peter was kissing the spot behind his ear now, the one that always made Johnny melt and that nobody ever seemed to pay enough attention to. “You like that?”

“Oh, this is so unfair,” Johnny said, eyes fluttering shut. “I always thought if you ever kissed me we’d skip straight to the wild marathon sex so I could show you you’re not the only flexible one.”

“Anything you can do, I can do better,” Peter sang, laughing, which made Johnny start laughing too, until the laughter turned to coughing and he had to cover his mouth, chest heaving. Peter rubbed at his back. “Yeah, I think we’re going to table the marathon sex in favor of cuddling on the couch tonight.”

“But later,” Johnny said, in between coughs. “On the table?”

Peter laughed. “Anywhere your heart desires.”

 

* * *

 

“I told you,” Johnny said stubbornly, three days later.

Peter’s glare was interrupted by a sneeze.

“Ugh,” he said, grabbing another tissue. “You don’t know that I got this from you. I could’ve, I don’t know, licked a subway pole.”

Johnny made a face and a disgusted noise. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“And admit defeat?” Peter blew his nose noisily. “Never.”

“If I ever see you stick your tongue on anything in the subway, it’s over,” Johnny said.

“Fickle,” Peter said, sighing long and hard.

Johnny rolled his eyes, climbing out of Peter’s bed. Or attempting to, anyway – Peter caught him as he knelt over him, pulling him in close. Johnny admittedly didn’t fight him very hard.

“Hello, nurse,” Peter said, hands sliding down Johnny’s sides to settle at his waist. He waggled his eyebrows, somehow still unfairly sexy even with the bedhead and the runny nose. “Is it time for my sponge bath already?”

Johnny’s stuff was still sitting in boxes in the living room, having arrived the day before from New Attilan. There was a letter from Medusa attached that Johnny hadn’t had the heart to read yet – but he would, after he unpacked. It felt too fast – it was too fast – but then when had he and Peter ever been anything but speed freaks.

It felt fast, but good. It had been a long time since Johnny had felt good about anything.

“You’re barely sick.” Johnny flicked him on the forehead. Peter pouted up at him, his hair all mussed from tossing and turning all night – and not in the fun way. Johnny smoothed it back for him, silently admitting defeat as he got comfortable in Peter’s lap. “If you were, you wouldn’t be planning to go out swinging again later.”

Peter raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Are you so sure about that?”

He raised his chin up for a kiss; Johnny hadn’t been able to turn him down for one yet.

“Come with me tonight,” Peter asked when they broke apart. He squeezed Johnny’s hips. “Like a date.”

“Oh, some date,” Johnny said, but he had to fight a smile. “You’re sick. Stay in with me instead.”

“Quit trying to change me,” Peter said, easily toppling Johnny over. He rearranged them until they were nose to nose on the bed, Peter’s hand resting at Johnny’s waist. “Compromise?”

“Compromise?” Johnny repeated, faking shock. “I didn’t think you knew the meaning of the word.”

Peter leaned forward and kissed him. Johnny melted into it, just like he’d melted into every single kiss since the first one, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Stay in bed with me for now,” Peter murmured, his nose brushing Johnny’s.

The unpacking could wait. The letter could wait. The city could wait, too. Johnny let the smile stretch across his face, hooking one of his ankle’s over Peter’s.

“Compromise,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://traincat.tumblr.com)!


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